


Those Quiet Smiles

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Hair Washing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean was breathing deeply. His eyes were still closed; his head tilted to the side as though he were missing Javert's touch. A thrill ran through Javert again: here was Valjean, tired and beautiful and strong, magnificent as he reclined in the water like a lion at rest, making himself vulnerable to Javert's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Quiet Smiles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dylan_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dylan_m/gifts).



> Thank you so much to vaincs for betaing! <3

Javert was in a good mood when he returned to Valjean's apartment after three nights spent in a miserable inn trying to root out a forger. He had not only made one arrest, but seized the entire band of four, who, when trying to escape, showed all the lack of sense Javert commonly ascribed to criminals and ran right into the waiting arms of Javert's men. Furthermore, Javert had confiscated stacks of letters and papers which he was confident would lead to further arrests in the coming weeks. He rather thought that he deserved a quiet evening by Valjean's fire now, sipping a cup of tea while Valjean would tell him more than he wanted to know of what had been planted in Cosette's garden this week.

The satisfaction of a job well done vanished as soon as he clasped Valjean's hand and watched him grow pale, deep lines around his mouth giving away a pain that Valjean would never voice otherwise.

“What is it?”

Javert refused to release Valjean's hand, although he grasped his wrist instead as soon as he noticed the bandaged fingers Valjean had sought to hide.

“It is nothing,” Valjean said, the lines of pain reminding Javert of the time when Valjean had managed to hide all sadness from him until it had almost been too late. Frustration welled up in Javert sharp and fast. Did Valjean still not trust him? Had he not yet proved himself worthy of being allowed to share in Valjean's pain?

“A bandage is not nothing,” he pointed out, perhaps more fiercely than was necessary – but worry had clenched around his heart with a cold hand.

“I hurt myself in the garden. It is nothing, truly – you can see that Cosette even called for the doctor right away.”

“Nothing,” Javert muttered, staring at the white bandages wrapped around three of those fingers whose touch he had come to know so well. He released a shuddering breath, his thumb rubbing gently along the warm, soft skin of the inside of Valjean's wrist.

“‘Nothing,’ you say, when–” He bit off what he was going to say when the side of his thumb grazed the band of scar tissue that encircled Valjean's wrist.

"Nothing, Javert."

Valjean's head tilted a little, as though he were curious, and Javert thought with helpless love that Valjean, this frustrating, endearing man, would of course not understand how Javert could be worried for him.

"Well," Javert said, and swallowed at the roughness of his voice. "Well. You have been out in the garden a long time. I am glad I returned today. Look, there's straw in your hair, Jean Valjean. What would your portress think?"

He reached out to pull a small, offending stalk of dried grass from the white locks that had rested so innocently against his lips so often when Valjean shared his bed. Javert held it out to show it off triumphantly, although he was not quite certain why, and was rewarded by another of those small smiles and the lightest flush of embarrassment.

"I did not notice. Is there more?"

Lightly, Javert trailed his fingers through Valjean's hair once more. The white locks drew the eye, pale as snow and soft as silk against his fingers. If he buried his nose in them and inhaled, Javert thought that he would be able to smell the garden that Valjean so loved on them: grass and leaves, budding flowers, ripening fruit, sunlight and birdsong. All things green and growing.

"You are quite a mess." The corner of his mouth rose a little, and the smile Valjean returned was at once embarrassed and relieved. And certainly Valjean had to be aware what was his plan – but that was well. Javert had no shame. Not in this.

"Come. I'll draw you a bath."

Valjean was still smiling a little. It was one of those quiet smiles that came not so much from the corners of his lips twitching upwards, but from the light that filled his eyes until a simple, calm happiness was shining from his face, illuminating the marks time had left with a gentle radiance that made Javert ache to reach out and trace them with worshipful fingers.

Well. A hot bath was a luxury Valjean would forego without him. Even for Javert, it was something Valjean would only accept after quiet protest – but he would accept it, and the warmth of that certainty rested in Javert's chest like the sun.

"I will wash your hair. You should be careful with your hand. Don't get the bandages wet."

"I'm hardly an invalid, Javert," Valjean said, but Javert could still hear that small smile in his voice despite the protest, and drew his fingers through the white locks in silent admiration. He would wash him a thousand times, if that was what it took to teach Valjean that Javert desired nothing more than to touch him with gentleness.

The bath was filled with hot water. Javert had carried it up the stairs himself, too impatient to wait for their portress' husband to carry the pails. They had bathed before, of course, but all of a sudden he could not bear the eyes of another on that tub, on the room where now Valjean was slowly undressing.

The water was still steaming. Javert had worked fast and efficiently, and perhaps one of the thoughts that had sped his hands was that if the water was still steaming now, it would stay warm for more of those precious moments during which Valjean would be bared to him: unclothed, wet and relaxed, content to allow Javert's eyes to take their fill of the sight.

Those moments were always over too quickly. Today, Javert thought, his eyes resting once again on Valjean's bandaged hand, he would make them last.

"It is not too hot?" he asked, even though he had tested the water himself. Valjean shook his head, still wearing his shirt to preserve his modesty. Javert had tasted every inch of his skin long ago, had taught his tongue the shape and taste of all his secret places – and yet, Valjean hesitated a moment before he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one swift move.

Javert bit down on the hoarse sound of need that threatened to escape his throat at the sight of shifting muscles and that broad, strong chest bared for his enjoyment at last. For long moments, his eyes lingered on the expanse of Valjean's chest covered by white hair, the small, dark shape of his nipples, and all he could think of was the sound Valjean made when he teased through the hair for lazy minutes before sleep took them, or the way tension made Valjean still when Javert closed his teeth around a nipple to tug or bite.

Then Valjean stepped into the water. The heat made him sigh with pleasure, and he sank down into it quickly, settling into the large, copper tub with a sigh of contentment that was so rare Javert could still count its occurrences.

"Careful with the bandages," he said, and Valjean nodded, his eyes half-closed as the heat lulled him to relax at last. His arm was propped up on the rim of the tub, his hand hanging down outside, and Javert watched as slowly, the tension went out of him completely, his eyes falling shut as he slid back in the water.

"Relax. I'll help you wash."

Despite his words, he did not even pretend to wash Valjean at first. It was too hard to resist the chance to simply look.

He sat down beside the tub, and smoothed away hair that was already sticky from sweat from Valjean's face. Valjean's skin was warm and damp, and his chest rose and fell slowly. Javert allowed his hand to travel down, brushing his cheek gently with his knuckles, then following the line of his throat downward. There, in the hollow, sweat had gathered, and he dragged a fingertip through it.

Valjean was breathing deeply. His eyes were still closed; his head tilted to the side as though he were missing Javert's touch. A thrill ran through Javert again: here was Valjean, tired and beautiful and strong, magnificent as he reclined in the water like a lion at rest, making himself vulnerable to Javert's hands.

He ached to touch every part of him, to trace bone and sinew and skin with his hands and so lay claim to them: this was his Heaven. This was his Paradise.

But that would come later, he thought, and leaned forward as if drawn by an invisible force to press his lips to Valjean's hair.

"Relax," he said again, his hand gently rising and falling with the movement of Valjean's chest.

"Javert, you do not need to..."

 _I'll need to as long as you say such things_ , he thought, but what he said aloud was simply, "I want to." And that was true enough. He could tell himself that Valjean needed his assistance, but he would eagerly do the same without such reason.

He allowed the strands of white to slip through his fingers. "Come, lean back."

Valjean shifted in the tub. It was not large enough to fit both of them – though they had tried once, in a mad fit of sudden desire, and had made love like overeager youths: water spilling onto the wooden floor and Javert's knees banging against the rim of the tub and no leverage to raise himself. But Valjean's sweat-slick arms had been around him, and they had panted into each other's mouths, Valjean hot and hard inside him, the warmth of the water surrounding him.

It had been good regardless. But today was not for such follies. Today, he was grateful that the tub was large enough even for a man of Valjean's impressive strength, and when Valjean had tilted back his head far enough, Javert drew his fingers through the hair that now floated in slick tangles in the warm water.

Valjean exhaled slowly, and Javert smoothed the hair away from his face. "What did you plant?" he asked, more for the pleasure of hearing Valjean's voice than from real interest, although he knew Valjean would not mind.

He almost missed the small huff of laughter that escaped Valjean as he worried at another tiny leaf that had become entangled in the strands.

"It is not the season for planting, Javert." There was a deep tenderness in his voice, and Javert found himself flushing inexplicably.

"I pruned a few of the roses. And I had shoots from a pear to graft onto the rootstock – I am not certain if they will take. It has been so long since I tried such a thing. How strange, for my hands seemed to remember what to do even when my mind did not!"

"We will have pears in the summer then?" Javert gently pressed his fingers to Valjean's scalp and felt him sigh again, relaxing even more so that the touch of Javert's hand was all that held his head above the water. Javert wanted to kiss him again, but he could not make himself move forward, because that would mean to stop watching.

"Not this summer. Perhaps in two years."

Javert made a pleased little sound. "Tell me, what else are you planning to plant?"

Valjean was silent for a moment when Javert helped him to sit again.

"Plums will be good, don't you think?"

Javert thought of standing in the garden, reaching for a branch above his head heavy with fruit, pulling off a ripe plum only to press it to Valjean's lips, kissing the sweet juice from his mouth afterwards.

"Yes," he said. "Yes. Plums will be good."

He took hold of the bar of soap and worked up a lather between his hands. It was a simple olive soap, scented with some sort of perfume – Cosette saw Valjean well supplied with luxuries, and in this, Javert had to agree with her. He might not know what to call this scent, but it was pleasing on Valjean. There was just a hint of it in his hair, and on their pillows when he rested his head on it in the evenings. And it pleased him to think that Valjean had fine soap and good food and soft shirts. It seemed right. He remembered how it had seemed wrong in Montreuil, how there had arisen in him some strange rage at the thought that a convict had clad himself in the garb of respectable men and had dared to hide his wretchedness behind tailors, barbers, perfumers. A rotten man desperate to hide the stink of the galleys, he had thought then, and had been filled with such joyful satisfaction to see Valjean stripped of his dignity and returned to a cell, that even now it made him pause for a second to regard with horror the man he had been.

The look he gave Valjean when he put the soap away after a moment was very tender. "I am glad Cosette sent this soap."

Valjean's hair was slick and heavy from the water. Javert worked his fingers through it for long moments, simply for the joy of feeling it against his skin. "I like how it smells on you."

How strange that even confessions like this became easier when he knew that Valjean needed no other reason to keep using something he might think himself unworthy of otherwise. And how wrong to think that Valjean would do it to please Javert, who of all the men in this world was perhaps most unworthy of such trust and devotion.

"There. Lean back again."

Valjean's eyes were closed, although Javert had worked very carefully to make certain that no suds would run into his eyes. Once Valjean's head was immersed in the water again, Javert began to wash the soap from him by gently moving his fingers through the fine hair once more. The water was still hot enough that a light sheen of sweat gleamed on Valjean's face. Javert watched with deep pleasure how Valjean's breathing slowed once more as he gave himself over to the sensation of Javert's fingers moving through his hair.

For a moment, Javert wondered what it would have been like to touch it when he had first known Valjean, when it was still dark wound through with gray. Would it have felt so fine and soft? Had it been coarser before?

He could barely believe now that he had not paid attention to how Valjean's hair had gone white after he had returned from Arras. What had he thought then? He could no longer remember. Perhaps he had told himself that this was the weight of his sins catching up with Valjean – but to try and think of Valjean now as he had then made his heart ache. All Javert remembered was that terrible, wrathful joy. He rather thought that he had not paid attention at all to Valjean's hair then, distracted as he had been.

It was pleasurable to wash the soap from the soft strands. Javert liked the sleek weight of it in his hands. It felt like an indulgence – like handling an expensive fabric, perhaps.

He paid special attention to Valjean's forehead, combing tenderly through his hair with his fingers to make certain that all the soap was gone, and that none of the water had run down Valjean's face instead. It was peaceful work. He wondered that he did not indulge this more often, and then realized it was Valjean who would have to be convinced to indulge himself in such a way.

But as long as Valjean was injured, Javert had an excuse to take care of him and return some of the affection Valjean so deserved.

He released Valjean after a long moment. Valjean’s eyes opened slightly to give him a small, drowsy smile which Javert returned before he took hold of the soap once more.

"You look tired," he said softly. "Just relax. I'll wash you. Make sure to keep your hand away from the water."

Valjean nodded obediently, and then his eyes slipped closed again and the strong body relaxed visibly into the water. It was no longer hot, Javert found out as he reached into it, but still very warm. They would have long minutes left to enjoy this before the water grew too cold for Valjean to linger.

Javert gently took hold of Valjean's leg and began his task there. He started with the foot, which lifted readily enough so he could place it on the rim of the tub and set to work, his fingers smoothing the white suds all over the foot until Valjean began to make soft sounds of contentment, his toes curling at the sensation. Javert smiled and began to drag his fingers up his calf. He could feel the muscle here, hard and unyielding, and he thought of Valjean strong enough to lift a cart, to stop a runaway ox, to carry a half-dead boy to safety. Strong enough to pull a chain for nineteen years.

"Does it hurt?" he asked very softly as he pressed his thumbs into knotted muscle to stroke away whatever ache might remain. "Is there still pain, or is it simply the memory?"

It took Valjean long moments to answer, and when he did, his voice was bleary, as though the gentle touch of Javert's hands had indeed lulled him to sleep.

"No pain – just the memory of it."

"It's stiffer than the other when you kneel in the garden." Javert drew his fingers slowly upwards, past the knee. Valjean's thigh was wet and slippery, and he set to work with deep satisfaction at the way it felt between his hands: the thickness of the limb, the heaviness of the muscles, the way he could dig in with his fingers, using his strength to knead like a baker working with dough. A small groan escaped Valjean, and when Javert looked up, he found that he had tilted his head back against the rim of the tub, his eyes still closed, a sheen of sweat glimmering above his lip. His hand was still hanging down safely outside the tub.

"Perhaps," Valjean said after a moment, while Javert kept indulging himself with long, firm strokes up and down the muscular thigh. "But it doesn't pain me. I do not think of it at all these days. It used to be a phantom weight. Whenever I walked outside, I feared that by my gait, everyone who looked at me would see me drag the irons..."

"And now?"

"Now I have not thought of it in a long time." Valjean's hand rose briefly to rest on Javert's shoulder with affection, and then Valjean was silent once more while Javert kneaded with careful force.

Perhaps it was true that there was no pain – but it was also true that when Valjean worked too much, it was always this leg that stiffened first. And he had Valjean so rarely at his mercy like this. It did not seem wrong to lavish the limb that had known so much pain with twice the affection now. Especially when Valjean was too relaxed to protest for once.

When Javert looked up before he continued to work his way slowly, methodically upwards from the other foot at last, he found Valjean so relaxed he seemed to doze in the water. His lips had parted slightly, and he was breathing slowly, heavily, his legs splayed apart as he allowed Javert to touch him to his heart's content. Between his legs, the impressive length of flesh had stirred a little at Javert's touch, but was still resting mostly soft against his thigh. Beneath, his balls floated in the water. When Javert had rubbed the soap into the muscles of the other thigh, he took up the bar once more to work up a lather, watching as Valjean's breathing grew heavier when Javert carefully washed his balls as well. Then, Javert took hold of his still-soft shaft with soapy fingers, coaxing the foreskin back with tenderness to run fingers slick with white suds over the sensitive crown.

"Shh," Javert said when Valjean groaned a little. "Keep your eyes closed. Relax. I'm almost done."

He kept his eyes intently on Valjean's face as he closed his fingers around his cock. It had began to harden, and he stroked it fondly while it grew. Valjean's eyelids fluttered, and his lips were parted, his mouth slack.

The water was still very warm, and a sheen of perspiration gleamed on Valjean's skin. Javert's gaze slid back down from Valjean's broad chest to where he was handling his cock with soapy hands. With every stroke, the pink crown appeared from the loose grip of his fingers, and he could watch the play of muscles as Valjean's stomach tensed and another sigh escaped him when Javert carefully swiped the soapy pad of his thumb around the flushed crown.

"Shh," Javert chided again and released his cock to massage the inside of his thighs once more. He could feel the tense flutter of muscles against his hands as he watched Valjean's cock slowly filling even more, twitching lazily against Valjean's stomach at his touch. "Don't move. Relax."

When he drew his hands up again at last, Valjean was almost swollen to full hardness and purple with blood. He enclosed him tenderly in his fist once more to stroke him once, twice – then released him to rub Valjean's stomach instead.

Again Javert took hold of the soap. This time, he moved to wash his chest, playing for long minutes with the soft, white hair there until it was covered by a thick carpet of soap. After a while, when Valjean's breathing had slowed again, he reached back down to press his hand against Valjean's cock rubbing it gently with one hand while the other continued to run over Valjean's chest and shoulders.

It was sweet to touch Valjean like this. It was rare to see him so completely at rest, accepting his touch and the pleasure it brought as something that simply was, not as something that had to be earned. And watching Valjean at rest was a pleasure in its own right. He loved the way Valjean's cock fit so perfectly into his hand, large and warm beneath his palm. He loved the way Valjean filled the tub with quiet strength: the limbs that were strong and round, the hard muscles of the plane of his chest shifting with every breath, the muscles of his stomach contracting every time Javert rubbed upwards over the warm, hard line of his cock. Javert could no longer look at him without thinking of that strength wrapping him in an embrace, those powerful limbs relaxing against him with trust – even that scarred back bared to his eyes or his fingers.

A soft moan escaped Valjean now every time Javert slid his soapy hand upwards. Javert smiled and watched and made certain not to speed up his hand. Slowly, regularly, he kept stroking him – not denying pleasure, but giving it easily, freely, in ever the same amount, until Valjean's legs fell apart even more, and his soft, unconscious moans were as constant as Javert's touch, and his breathing was fast while Javert kept going, never giving him more – but also never giving less.

“Easy. Easy,” Javert murmured, as though he were talking to a horse – but he did not want Valjean to beg. He did not want him to work for it. He just wanted him to receive, and relax, and make the pleasure last for as long as possible.

He could not say how long it took in the end. The water was still warm, and Valjean's cock was very hard and large, stroked patiently for so long that Javert thought he would never forget the shape of it against his palm ever again, a brand burned into his skin in the shape of Valjean's pleasure. Valjean's chest rose and fell, his breathing heavy, his eyes still closed. At last, Valjean spilled himself across his stomach in ribbons of white, the thick cock twitching lazily, and Javert watched this too, and kept stroking him through all of it.

When Valjean was done, Javert washed the fluids of his pleasure from his chest once more, tracing muscles with his fingertips while he watched Valjean try to regain his breath. His chest was still rising and falling quickly, his head leaning tiredly against the rim off the tub, as though it had suddenly become too heavy for him. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack; sweat still gleamed his brow, and Javert moved to wipe it away gently, his fingers smoothing away the lines on Valjean's forehead while he moved over him to press his mouth to his, the kiss chaste despite the work his hand had just done.

“There. Come, the water is getting cold.”

Valjean was still too tired to talk as Javert helped him step from the tub and then dried him with a towel. Valjean was soft once more now, but still beautiful to touch and to behold. Javert's hands lingered with appreciation on his shoulders, followed the curve of his back to his buttocks, and when Javert knelt to towel his legs, he leaned his forehead against Valjean's thigh for a moment and pressed a kiss to it.

“All of this because of my hand, Javert?” Valjean murmured when Javert led him towards the bed. He sounded exhausted, not just from the morning's work in the garden, but from the hot water, and Javert was determined to take advantage and see him rest for an hour, when usually Valjean would deny himself such a thing during the day.

“Because I wanted to,” Javert said in answer after a moment. It was the truth, after all. He would have wanted to even if Valjean had not injured himself, but it was still difficult at times to admit to wanting things, as much as it infuriated him to think of Valjean denying himself.

It was answer enough, he supposed. It seemed to suffice for Valjean in any case, who turned and gave him a small smile, and then reached out with his other hand to briefly squeeze Javert's fingers. He still looked tired, but it was a good tiredness, Javert thought: a bone-deep relaxation brought about by the hot water and, perhaps, the help of his own hand.

His palm tingled at the memory of Valjean's arousal pressing firm and certain into his hand.

Perhaps Valjean would need help washing again tomorrow.

He flushed a little, but could not deny that the pleasure that flooded him at the thought was selfish. He took no joy in seeing Valjean so incapacitated. But he did take joy in having an excuse to touch him, and to care for him, and to see Valjean surrender himself into his hands so trustingly.

Valjean was still naked when he slipped into the bed, and when he turned to look at Javert, there was color high on his cheeks. Javert looked down at him, clenching his jaw at the need that arose all of a sudden at the sight of Valjean's strong, bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the blanket. The cool linen would slide right across his heated skin, without the layer of the nightshirt as a barrier... Javert swallowed as he thought of Valjean falling asleep like this, and of how he might find him later when he would join him in bed: naked and asleep, skin soft and hot when Javert would slip beneath the covers at last and press himself against him. He would rest his palm between Valjean's legs once more, maybe, to wait and watch to see how long it would take Valjean to grow hard for him again, how long until he would wake...

“Rest,” he said, and if his voice was somewhat throaty, Valjean did not react, but lowered his head onto the pillow, strands of hair sticking to his cheek. Javert sat down next to him.

“Rest,” he repeated again, very softly, and then leaned down to brush a kiss to Valjean's brow, smoothing the strands away from his face until Valjean sighed and closed his eyes.

The damp hair had begun to dry, curling a little at his nape, and Javert combed through it with his fingers. It parted easily for him, pale silk that even now seemed to carry the scent of hours of happiness in the garden, the joy of a sudden smile. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the white locks as well, breathed in deeply while his fingers smoothed over the fine hair at his neck. Valjean's breath was coming slowly and regularly, and Javert realized that he had already drifted away into sleep.

A bare shoulder was still sticking out from beneath the covers, and Javert smiled as he thought of how he would join Valjean later – how he would slip into the heat of his embrace and taste his trust on his tongue and his fingers. But for now, Javert was content to remain sitting next to him, his fingers still trailing through the slowly drying hair, watching him sleep and remembering the joy he had been given, and hoping that Valjean dreamed of the joy that was still to come.


End file.
